Sociopathic Tendencies
by slang-fortunes
Summary: John is living with a sociopath- he is certain of it. (Eventual JohnLock, rewrite of my story Midnight Hours).
1. Introduction

Hello, all! I just wanted to thank everyone who read/subscribed/reviewed Midnight Hours. I never expected so many people to actually read it! I decided, however, that it needed some reworking- that there was more to add, more of the story to tell. So, I decided to begin rewriting it- which is what this is. So, the story will begin with its refreshed beginning and continue from here.

* * *

John dropped the last box on the floor- not that he had too many to start with. In fact, 221 B Baker's Street seemed completely unchanged, unaffected by the young doctor's presence, so much so that John begun to doubt that the flat even partly belonged to him. It reflected only Sherlock Holmes: the strange, dark man that he found himself to be boarding with. He barely even knew him- scratch that, he didn't know him at all- bar the fact that, somehow, Sherlock managed to absorb every little detail about his life; somehow, he had known about the war, about his sister (though, of course, he had falsely predicted Harriet to be his brother), about the cause of his nagging limp. He knew all this without letting on anything about himself. John could already see that this would be a recurring theme with Sherlock Holmes- all take and no give- though he was still unaware as to how that would affect him.

"Well, let's try to make this place feel more like home," he told himself to assuage the overwhelming lurch in his gut. Had he made a terrible mistake? He tried to ignore the doubt as he began to unpack.

He had just finished his second package when he heard heavy footsteps up the stairs. They were followed instantaneously with the bursting open of the door. It was, of course, his flatmate, who began to discard his lengthy, black coat and scarf before bidding good day. "Hello." It was John who broke into the silence first. He watched the slender man, now more slight in only a button down and straight trousers, turn to face him quickly.

"Oh, hello, John. Settling in?" He asked. John noted how his voice seemed to have a certain rhythm to it. It wasn't musical, per se, but a steady beat. Sherlock Holmes spoke as if keeping on time with an unheard metronome.

John chided himself for listening so closely. It was curiosity, he told himself, which had him so keenly focused on this man, an enigma in his own right. "Yes. Just wrapping up. I hope you don't mind, I put some of my things in the hall closet just off your bedroom- it was empty."

"We have a hall closet?" Sherlock mused. John glanced at him incredulously, but he didn't seem to notice. "How do you feel about Thai?"

"I'm right starving," John admitted, thinking that Sherlock would call for some takeaway and send him to fetch it, seeing as he had already abandoned his outdoor wear. But, Sherlock just quickly threw his coat back on, wrapped the scarf around his neck in haste, and looked at John as if he should be following suit.

He opened his mouth, clearly realizing that John didn't get the hint. "Right, sorry- the place I was thinking doesn't do takeaway. However, it makes up for it with authenticity. I thought it'd be only _proper_," he said the word as if it were ironic. John had yet to learn that anytime Sherlock referenced any sort of belief in propriety, it was probably for some ulterior gain and was always certainly uncharacteristic. "If I take my new flatmate out to celebrate. Oh, and for the future, please try to keep up with me- I often forget to say what I'm thinking."

_You don't say?_ John remarked to himself. "I'm no mind reader, I'm afraid, Mr Holmes." He replied, steady and calm, still trying to keep up that friendly distance one keeps with people not too familiar. He put on his jacket in a timely manner, grabbed his cane from its resting place against the sofa, and stood with the strictness of a military man awaiting instructions.

"Yes. We'll certainly have to change that- and, please, do call me Sherlock."

"Right. Okay." He followed Sherlock out onto the street, gripping to his cane for dear life in an attempt to keep up with his long strides.

The dinner itself was –nice, if not revealing. Perhaps, that was what convinced John to stay against his better judgement. He had yet to learn that Sherlock could be extremely charming when it suited his interests and, in that moment, obtaining a flatmate (especially one that may be keen to join him in his crime-driven gallivants around London) was most certainly in his interests. In the coming weeks, he would discover that Sherlock Holmes was just as odd as he originally supposed and far more dangerous. He would learn that Sherlock cared for normalcy in the same way John cared for prison: he knew that it existed, noted its use value, but never wanted to personally experience it.

What he wouldn't learn- perhaps, until it was far too late- was that Sherlock was going to overtake him. The flat's reflection of Sherlock would become his own: total and whole, he would become completely absorbed by the head rush of the world's only consulting detective, absorbed by the awe of his genius, and later, by the intimate gentleness of the raging storm's subtle moments.


	2. The Body in Trafalgar Square

John wanted to be reluctant. Every sense was telling him that this was a bad idea; _hell_, he thought, _living with Sherlock is a bad idea. The man is clearly a sociopath_. It had become increasingly obvious- with each given day, Sherlock began to reveal himself as more and more _off_. His interests, as far as John could discern, focused on exploring murder scenes, probing dead human organs, and playing the violin (in a terrible, manic way). He seemed to be completely fixated on death in a cold, scientific manner- he didn't solve crimes for the good of London. To say he was a local hero- or, even a patriot, would be a dishonour to local heroes and patriots everywhere. To say he did it "out of the goodness of his heart" would be a lie most undeserving. Sherlock was, in his professional opinion, absolutely addicted to the rush of it all. He thrived on the macabre of killing- he got a sort of contact high from seeing a corpse. It wasn't beyond John's comprehension to think that Sherlock solved murders as a means of restraint; some days, he thought Sherlock would prefer to be procuring the bodies, not analysing them.

So, when Sherlock asked him for help with a case, he wanted to say no. More than that, he wanted _to want_ to say no. But, in that moment, the idea of feeling the adrenaline was too overwhelming to deny. John had already begun associating the confusing, all-encompassing Sherlock Holmes with the tainted excitement of London's darkest corners. He had to admit he was aching for the horror of it all- horror like he knew it on the sands of an Afghani desert- and he was certain that Sherlock could supply it. The man was a monster/sociopath/_disaster _and John could not get enough.

However, solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes appeared to serve a dual purpose. It was through the cases that John began to get to know Sherlock Holmes better. He had been able to quickly gather that Sherlock was pinnacle to the London Police Force- it was obvious in the way Detective Inspector Lestrade took his abuse like a duty (and made the other, less willing members do the same)- and, while working with the man, it became clear as to why. He was, for lack of better words, a genius. He could tell an airplane pilot by his tie, a plumber from his left thumb. "Deduction," he'd call it. "I don't _know_ anything- I observe it." Usually, he said it in a way that relayed the message that no one else could do it- that everyone was too stupid- and yet, he had taken, over the three cases they had worked together, to quizzing John. Like he was trying to teach him to deduce for himself, which annoyed John to no end. And yet, John never saw him even try to teach anyone else (if you could call it that- teaching would never be Sherlock's strong point). He wasn't sure what that meant.

That was not to say that he and Sherlock were _friends, _exactly. Within the short time they'd known each other it had quickly become so much more and so much less than that. John _knew_ him: knew what the little variations in his voice meant, knew his motions, knew his stride. He knew when Sherlock was composing his own tunes on the violin (which, as it turns out, he was actually quite apt at), he was in a bright mood and when he was ravaging a more famous work, he was frustrated. He knew the way he paced, when he ate (only every other day- when John forced him), when he was breaking riddles. He came to become versed in all of Sherlock Holmes' little nuances; what every hidden smile meant (little smirks he only shared with John), what every sigh meant, what every look meant.

At the same time, he couldn't speak of any knowledge of his flatmate's history. It was as if the detective had always been exactly as John knew him to be; a quirky (_understatement of the century_, the doctor thought) genius living at 221B Baker's Street, solving murders for local police while simultaneously irritating everyone he came in contact with. He wouldn't have even known he had a brother except that he already had the _pleasure_ of meeting Mycroft Holmes, an equally mysterious figure wielding some apparent power in the British government, who had attempted to pay John off to spy on his younger sibling.

Sherlock may as well have been a stranger. John just happened to catalogue every aspect of his daily life in some backwards attempt to understand him better. It was obsessive. The genius, the man, was everything; within the span of two weeks, John found himself completely absorbed by him. He had become inextricably linked to 221B, to the cases, to Sherlock. It became his whole life without skipping a beat.

In that sense, Sherlock Holmes and Afghanistan were one in the same to John. Both were all-consuming, frustrating, beautiful, and dangerous. Both pushed him to the absolute edge of his sanity, to the borders of his self-control. But, that was what suited him. He thrived against the sharpness of that edge- proof could be found in the way his hand refuted its tremble within hours after meeting Sherlock. It was like his body knew: all of his senses told him- we're back in a warzone. Back where we belong. It was certainly true that Sherlock was a minefield. One wrong step and John might…

"-the traces of Silicone are to be expected. He must work in a factory- a factory- a factory that requires Silicone. It requires Silicone, so thus it must produce something that requires heat-protectant. Cookware? That's just a guess, but it fits. So, he works in a factory that produces cookware. How many of those are in or around London? John?" Sherlock was off- no time to think, now, John realized. _What? Pondering life, are you? __**How poetic**_. He could just hear his flatmate's bland reaction. Sherlock had no patience for anything that wasn't science or deduction. "John? Could you refrain from being your normal bumbling idiot? If it wouldn't be too much of a bother?" The charming act had dissolved within hours of that dinner at the Thai restaurant. He insulted John offhandedly every hour or so. More often, when they were working on a case. This was their fourth in the time they had known each other.

"Sorry, Princess," He grumbled, though he was blushing with embarrassment- only for the notion that Sherlock would find him even more idiotic if he knew what occupied his mind. "What can I assist you with?"

"Get on that useless computer of yours and find me a cookware factory. Twenty-mile radius from inner city. We'll narrow the search once we have options." Sherlock was pacing, pacing, pacing. He was chasing his mind around the room, John imagined, trying to match its speed. His eyes were recording everything simultaneously: the way the walls looked, how full the ashtray was, the pile of old case files strewn about across the floor, the way John was watching him- "What are you doing?" he snapped.

"Google- it's loading." John measured calmly.

"No. I mean, you're watching me. Closely. Closer than normal."

"Because you look crazier than normal." John retorted, because cruelty was always easier than the truth. And this sort of ironic cruelty was a kind of currency between them; it was impossible to be civil if you lived with Sherlock.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Your humour absolutely kills me. Now, the page has loaded- I can see the reflection off your watch." John opened his mouth to read out the hits but Sherlock just gasped and headed straight for the door. He had already read them, presumably off John's watch, or at least enough of them to recollect whatever thought he had once tucked away pertaining to this subject.

John headed after him with a quickened gate. But he walked stricter, straighter. Just like heading into war.

* * *

Two bodies in twenty-four hours. The night was just getting good for Sherlock, John thought. He watched the man- all height, all dark lines- lean over the corpse in the alley. He was rattling off, probably to John (who Sherlock appeared to think was his assistant, and therefore dutifully obliged to listen at all times. John did not agree on this matter), though he wasn't close enough to hear. So, it was Lestrade that tried to listen and take note as John stood just in front of the yellow tape, watching from afar.

"There's something wrong in the way he likes finding bodies." Donovan noted, her eyes following John's. "He's completely psycho. You know that?" John just made an ambiguous noise. "It never fazes him: the idea that getting excited over a corpse is not normal at all."

"I don't think Sherlock is under any misconception that he's normal. He simply doesn't care." He knew that Donavon would never really understand that- not the way he did. The idea that Sherlock liked murders, liked examining bodies, even waited for a crime to crop up so that he would have some entertain him- it was becoming just as natural to John as any accepted truth. "What's the harm in him enjoying it? This is London, there's at least one murder by the time the sun goes down. He catches killers. It doesn't matter why he does it."

"When he gets bored with solving murders and starts planning them, then he won't seem so harmless. You think that, don't you? He's harmless. He's just a little eccentric. I'm sure you tell yourself he cares about you underneath it all- that he just acts this way. Let me tell you, John. He's not acting. He is this way. He doesn't care- and that's because he doesn't really feel anything."

John swallowed. He didn't want to admit he lost composure- he had already had this epiphany himself, but it somehow made him feel sick to hear it echoed in Donavon's voice. He gave her a dead look (one he perfected by watching Sherlock). "I don't think he cares about me. I've only known him two weeks." Had it only been that long? He tended to measure his life in only two periods: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. The After Sherlock Period seemed to have little recognition of time- it felt as though it went on indefinitely, that it had always existed.

"Alright, John. I've seen enough, let's go." Sherlock had approached unnoticed, though John wasn't sure how he had managed it. He never was.

"What about the woman?" He nodded to the body on the cement being covered by the sheet. The edges of her bohemian gown were the last part of her visible under the covering of white.

"What about her? Had a pre-existing heart condition. Heartbeat irregularity. Just dropped dead, it happens. _Boring._" Donavon looked at John as if her point had been proved, but John had never doubted what she said was true. He just shrugged and trailed behind the black coat until the slid into a cab. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Just- work." The second the words escaped his mouth, he regretted them. Sherlock would see right through that lie. That wasn't even a challenge, John. He'd say-_mock_. He'd mock. Sherlock never simply said anything.

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't even question. He just nodded, staring distractedly out the window at rolling greyness. When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock left him to his own devices. That felt strange. Usually, Sherlock would hang around, an unwanted spirit. He wouldn't speak, only mutter to himself (or at John, but not to him) or run his bow over the violin absently. But, tonight, he just picked up a few books and retired to his bedroom, leaving John with the entire living room and his thoughts.

To think that Sherlock didn't care about him: that wasn't hard to imagine. Sherlock only just cared about Mrs Hudson, their landlady (and certainly _not_ their housekeeper, as she kept reminding them), whom he had clearly known for years. Just cared enough to force niceties and not leave human appendages in her fridge more than necessary. No, the idea did ring true. What really irked John was that he already cared about Sherlock.

He watched- watched to make sure the detective ate (because he quickly realized that eating was _boring_ and not in the Hierarchy of Sherlockian Needs), that he didn't take himself out with the gun, that he didn't try to off himself from utter boredom just to see what it felt like. He liked to chalk it up to the doctor in him, but he knew that wasn't it. The doctor in John was detached- a war doctor. He saw death all the time. His role was to give recommendation in regards to one's health and then let them make their own decisions. But, he wasn't about to let this man make his own decisions in those regards.

He was already thoroughly attached to Sherlock. The bastard had wriggled his way into every aspect of John's life in a matter of weeks, making him completely dependent, while the other man was completely self-sufficient. He didn't need John Watson. Sherlock Holmes didn't need anyone. That made John even angrier, though he didn't understand why. He had seen this coming- he had known from the beginning that this would happen. _I shouldn't be this upset_, he told himself through clenched teeth, though it did nothing to quell the feeling. He let himself boil over with rage, silently until he was spent. Then, he just curled up on the sofa in the dark.

* * *

He woke to the kettle hissing. He barely stirred at first, giving the sunlight recognition through his closed eyelids, the sound of heavy footsteps in the kitchen taking up occupation with all the other unnoticeable sounds. "Tea is only worth anything when it's hot. So, you ought to drink it, now, before I go back on my friendly gesture and drink both cups myself."

"You can drink tea cold. It's called iced tea." John mumbled through his sleep. He heard a typical scoff. Even half-awake, he registered this tea _thing_ as a new ritual and not typical Sherlock behaviour.

"People who drink iced tea are imbeciles. Now, get up." John rested in the upright position, opening his eyes. The curtains were open, allowing for that offending sunlight the come streaming into the windows, illuminating Sherlock's pale face in a way that left little sinister in it. "Honestly, I don't know how you can sleep so much."

"Well, it appears you never sleep at all." John retorted, which was true. He'd lived with Sherlock for two weeks and had never once caught the man asleep. He'd come in at any odd hour to find Sherlock pacing the living room, grumbling to himself. He was starting to believe the man had evolved beyond the need to rest (which, John knew, was physically impossible. But, this was Sherlock Holmes- the line between the probable and the improbable was always so blurred it was barely there at all).

"That would be because sleep is boring. I'd much rather be conscious- thinking, getting work done. Like we ought to be doing now. I just received a call from Lestrade. There is a body in Trafalgar Square."

John wanted to ask Sherlock if he even had dreams- but he didn't. Instead, he asked, "How'd a killer manage to murder someone in the middle of Trafalgar Square?"

"Most likely, he didn't. It's far more probable that the body was dumped there- possibly between the hours of two to three in the morning. There may still have been witnesses, but there'd be far less than during the early evening, or the beginnings of the morning rush around five. He's probably skilled, killed before, I'd imagine. Confident. But, that's about all I can figure without actually seeing the body- which we can't do until you stop being useless."

Sherlock had abandoned the tea, grabbed his coat, and had one foot out the door. "Jesus. Can't I shower? Or, at least, drink this bloody tea? The body's not going to walk away," John called after him, but it was useless. So, he just threw his hands up and followed Sherlock into an awaiting cab, still in last night's clothes.

They spent a few minutes in silence, Sherlock tapping his fingers in a rhythm against his knee. John could hear his own breathing a bit too loudly. He wondered if the detective knew how awkward the backseat felt, or if he even noticed such things. "Something Donavon said has shaken you." It was more of an accusation. "About me. Something about me. What? That I'm a serial killer, perhaps? _How many bodies do you think I have under my belt, John?_"

John should have seen this coming. He knew Sherlock's observation skills hadn't failed him last night, he should've expected this. As per usual, Sherlock had just been biding time. "Christ, I don't think you've killed anyone. Don't be an idiot."

"I believe you mean: I haven't killed anyone _yet_. It's only a matter of time, I'm sure she told you. Until I stop solving murders-"

"-And start planning them. Yes, that's what she said. But I don't believe that bullshit." So, maybe that wasn't the truth- but, how could he tell a sociopath that he hypothesized him to be a murderer-in-waiting? He finally plucked up the courage to look at his companion. He was staring back, emotionless.

"What do you believe?"

John didn't really know how to answer. But, leaving the silence gave Sherlock more room to deduce and that wouldn't help his case. "I think- I think you're a sociopath. You don't feel much- except maybe annoyance- and put up with people only until they no longer have use value. You solve murders only because you're bored. You have no interest in any humanitarian aspect. You don't care about helping people. I'd say you're selfish, but that's not even it. You don't care about yourself, either. You live for a chase, for a challenge. That's it."

He watched Sherlock. The man's eyes narrowed- not with anger, but with interest. Like the outburst had given him something else to study; a new challenge. Finally, he just smirked, "Very astute of you, John. You're absolutely right. But, let me ask you this: does that change anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to leave? Does my immorality bother you that much? I can answer that for you. It doesn't change a thing, because this truth doesn't affect you. You've always known what I was- you've never expected anything more. You're going to stay because you love the chase just as much as I do. You live on it, you need it. What does that make you, John?" Surprisingly, there was no animosity there. Just a vacant voice, a lull. Sherlock did not even feign upset, which he normally did. He just spoke and then grew silent. John opened his mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. "Enough. I'm thinking- the murder. _We're still in the chase_."

The chase. **The chase**. Everything with him was about the chase. Sometimes, John wanted to shout, "Fuck the chase!" But he never did, because he needed it. And he needed Sherlock to give it to him. He gave his flatmate the silence he requested and tried not to think too loudly, for fear of disturbing him.


	3. Passionate Motivator

The cab stopped just in front of the square, where a crowd had started to gather. John couldn't even see the yellow police tape marking off the area around the body, but he knew it was there. He took note of the swarm of news casters and journalists swimming about; automatically, his mind and his eyes fixed on Sherlock to see his reaction. John couldn't keep his attention off him for long, nor could he manage to keep his anger sustained. His moment of clarity- about the dark man beside him, about them both- vanished back into absolution. It was all about the crime, again. _Maybe, he'll just ignore them?_ John had never seen the media at any of Sherlock's murder cases (because, to be honest, they _were_ his cases- the police were back up, at best), but that may have been because the detective's locations of choice always seemed to be dark, back alleys and dingy apartments- not the place for cameras.

"_For fuck's sake."_ It was rare that Sherlock actually cursed, when John thought about it. Usually, he'd come up with more creative ways to express his frustration (like firing John's army rifle at the wall in the flat). But, the words came out so whiny- like a moody adolescent- that John had to chuckle. He couldn't resist it, even after the tense few moments they just had. After a second, Sherlock joined in. Finally, he breathed. "I prefer to work in solitude." _Solitude? _Before he could even ask, Sherlock replied- sounding bored, "You don't count as people, John. I didn't mean without you."

"Oh, how nice. Thanks for that." Though he tried to muster the best of his sarcasm, he felt unnecessary relief. Of course, it shouldn't have mattered whether Sherlock liked to have him around or not; he was just a flatmate- a flatmate equally obsessed with witnessing destruction. Besides, it really made little difference what Sherlock preferred. He barely _liked_ anything or anyone at all. But, in that moment, it had mattered and John felt automatic embarrassment. He could feel that treacherous blush creeping across his face, again- he tried not to think of the fact that he hadn't acted like this since he was sixteen; he'd never been so self-conscious in his adult life.

"What? Not camera shy, are you?" Sherlock opened the door, albeit with a millisecond of hesitation, and hit the cement. He had already begun shoving his way through the crowd by the time John had come within ten paces behind.

Sherlock slid up beside the corpse, ignoring all questions fired at him by the media and all information being given to him by Lestrade. John dutifully took that information down, just in case it became useful- trying not to meet Donavon's eyes as he stood at Sherlock's back. They were all forced to stand quite close, as the parameters set out by the police had been smaller than usual, due to the uniformed officers' inability to keep the large crowd in check. John couldn't help but observe his companion at this moment- completely ignorant of any unwanted attention, muttering to himself like a maniac. He was nearly centimetres from the corpse, close enough to feel its breath, had it any. "Strangulation marks on the neck, clearly given by some type of rope. Pattern in the skin suggests a thick, braided sort. Used in the handling of cargo boxes, notably. The killer was obviously left handed."

"Obvious, is it?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock just sighed in annoyance but did not answer.

"Clothes are askew, which could be proof of a struggle but was more likely done while the body was being moved. Whoever killed him was not strong enough to carry him easily, and appears to have dragged the body to this location."

"But, why here? It wasn't to conceal the body- obviously he wanted people to see it." John muttered, fearing that he was intruding on Sherlock's thought process. But, the taller man's eyes lit up and he nodded swiftly.

"**Yes**! Now you're asking the right questions. But, I think-" He stopped midsentence, turned on his heel, and ducked under the tape. He forced himself through the buzzing crowd with little resistance. John lost sight of him for a minute, only to rediscover him climbing the steps of the National Gallery. He looked out over the crowd, his eyes focusing on John. He seemed to rapidly measure the distance between them before pulling out his phone.

John's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

**I think he wanted someone specific to see it. – SH**

Then again.

**Someone he knew would be standing right where I am, before the police showed. -SH**

John leaned over to show the messages to Lestrade, who nodded. "Alright- so, someone was meant to see this body. Who?"

"Someone he knew would be standing there- at a specific time. So, most likely someone who works at the gallery; but not anyone who works in management or restoration- they would enter through the back. A more menial job, tour guide or a security guard. Someone who would have reason to be here before dawn- so, a guard is looking like the most likely alternative." Sherlock had appeared at their side. _How had he managed that?_ John didn't even venture to guess- this was Sherlock. No use trying to figure anything out.

* * *

"Why? Why?" Back at the flat, Sherlock was pacing- as per usual- and muttering. John was watching him from a safe distance, the chair in the corner of the room.

"Why what?" Asking was a risk. Sherlock may explode- _the minefield- _especially given the intensity of the morning, which had gone without mention (though, realistically, they would probably never discuss it. There was a strong possibility Sherlock had forgotten it entirely- _useless information_). But John felt as if he had to say something.

Sherlock stopped quick, jerkily. He turned to face John. The man was still a mystery to him for all that he knew, and John found himself wincing in preparation for the reaction. It always felt as if Sherlock was teetering on the edge of insanity- any little thing could send him over that edge. John measured his breathing. His intermittent tremble in his hand, waiting- hoping- for the stress, stilled itself.

Sherlock's face relaxed. "Why was the body meant to be seen? Who was it for? It just- it must be right here, _why can't I see it?_" He was overtly frustrated with himself, that was obvious, but not his flatmate's presence. He returned to pacing. John took this as an invitation to hang around.

"If it's any consolation, I can't see it, either."

"_Of course, you can't." _Even John could tell it came out harsher than intended. Sherlock's fist was clenched against his leg as he walked about. He stopped again to face him. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant. Really, it's fine." And it was fine. _Wasn't it?_ Sherlock thought he was stupid, just like everyone else. John knew that, so why did it irk him so much? For John's sake, Sherlock tried to arrange his face into an apologetic look but it didn't quite hold. He was deep in thought; John gave him points for trying.

* * *

"This makes absolutely no sense." This was the fifth time in an hour Sherlock had made this point. He had retired from pacing and had taken to sitting in the chair across from John, his hands pulling lightly on his black curls. "There has to be a reason here- there always is. This killer wouldn't simply drop a body in Trafalgar Square." John could see him straining; straining to pull some fragment of understanding from this haystack. It was clear in the way his knuckles were white and his lip was quivering immeasurably underneath the pressure of his front teeth, though John realized how strange it was to be watching the detective so closely.

It was, perhaps, his embarrassment at his own perception that made him clear his throat. Certainly, this wasn't weird. Sherlock watched him in excess every waking minute- in much more detail than John could reciprocate. So, it wasn't a breach of privacy when he returned the act, as it were. "Look, maybe you need to take a step back from this."

"Pardon?" Sherlock seemed snapped from his mental train. As recognition became clear in his features, they settled back into confusion, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before. John noted it probably hadn't.

"You know, take a break. Why don't we go get Chinese, or something? Get something to eat and give it a rest- it'll probably come to you. It always does." Always under the marginal threat of a psychotic break, John watched Sherlock for any signs of eruption.

"Go get Chinese? Now?" Sherlock didn't seem angry, per se. Just completely surprised. He let out a soft sigh- it was the first time John thought he looked tired in the few weeks he'd known him.

More secure in the idea that he was boarding with someone who was most likely somewhat sane- for the moment, he continued. "Yeah. Right now. There's that place just around the corner- you said the other day you'd wanted to try it."

"You remembered I said that?"

"Uh, yes?"

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked slightly. "I'm amazed you remember anything from last week. Your mind always seemed so _incapable_." He grabbed his coat, which was the silent assent to the motion to go for food. John followed suit (he still wasn't a mind reader, but he _was_ learning the cues).

"I'll let that one slide, only on the grounds that you seem to be suffering extreme mental trauma."

"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is." He caught the tail end of Sherlock's smirk as he turned from grabbing a pair of gloves. They both took the steps, Sherlock two at a time, and hit the cement with a quickened gate. John found himself a good three paces behind, as usual. "Has anyone ever told you that you're always running? Even when you're not in a hurry?"

"John," The dark haired man looked back, that ironic smile still playing at his lips in a way that left John feeling conflicted, "I'm always in a hurry."

John ate quickly- always afraid that Sherlock would get carried away on a thought and he wouldn't get to finish his Dim Sum. Sherlock was sitting across the table from him at their window seat, using his chopsticks aptly, as if it were natural to him. Unlike John, he ate with patience, more like restraint. "Hey, can I ask you something?" John had caught himself wondering- and wondered if Sherlock would permit it.

"Yes?"

"Why was it obvious that the killer was left-handed?"

At this, Sherlock chuckled, though it managed to be only minimally condescending. "The ligature marks are deeper on the right side of the neck. It appears that the killer managed to get the rope around the head and then pull against the victim's weight. Also, there was a light bruise forming on the left side of the skull, suggesting that he may have applied force to the head in order to create more resistance."

"Not the most effective method of strangulation." John commented through a slurp.

"No. I'm beginning to think I was wrong. I'm starting to believe that the killer wasn't an expert at all. Probably his first killing," Sherlock admitting he was wrong was about as rare as a complete solar eclipse; it happened, but not very often. "But, that just means that the motive behind the killing was even more intense- to warrant a complete amateur to toss a body in the middle of a public place."

Still with a mouthful of food, John nodded. "Maybe, he did it for love?" This seemed to be almost too obvious an answer (alerting him to the idea that it was probably wrong).

"_What did you just say?"_ He sounded incredulous. John became extremely self-conscious.

"Um, it was for love? They say it's the most passionate motivator-" Hew trailed off, squinting at his fork (not even attempting to use chopsticks), so he didn't have to face the look of absolute annoyance he must have been getting. The conversation ended abruptly- or so it seemed.

Suddenly, "John?"

"Hmm?" He winced. Sherlock must have thought he was a bloody idiot, to think Sherlock hadn't already completely exhausted that end.

"Have I ever told you that you are- _the most brilliant man I've ever met? _Love- it's so obvious! It's been right in front of my face this entire time- I just couldn't see it. I was thinking of the killer as if he were like me; but, of course, he wouldn't be…. He'd be more like you. Amateur mistake." John would've been excessively pleased, had it not been for that last bit. _More like me? What's that supposed to mean?_ But, in typical Sherlock fashion, he answered before the question could be posed aloud. "I just meant that love would be of the utmost interest to him. It isn't to me- thus, you two are more similar than him and I."

"You wouldn't kill for love, then?" The question sounded wrong even as it passed his lips, but John still allowed the words to go. They hung in the air for a moment.

Sherlock laughed, empty and short. "Heavens, no. If I were to kill anyone- which I suppose I should add, has never been of my interest- it would be for pleasure alone."

"Pleasure?!"

"Just to see if I could get away with it. Which, I reckon, I could, seeing as the police rely on me to solve their homicides. But, now that I've said that, don't begin assuming that I'm the killer every time." They shared another one of those little smiles- the ones that reaffirmed to John that he had been correct initially, that something inside Sherlock wasn't cold or analytical. Maybe part of him could manage to let the science go for a moment and just be human? Or maybe he was just a sociopath, as John had come more recently to suspect, and he was using this moment to keep John tied to him; using the artistry of a smirk to keep him hooked. _He doesn't need to_, John thought. He would be hooked regardless.


	4. A Constant Friction

It was by the very fibre of his being that allowed Sherlock to keep himself restrained long enough to let John finish his Dim-sum. He sighed continuously, tapping his chopstick unceremoniously against the table top, his eyes rolling back and forth and giving him that _are you serious?_ look. His whole body seemed suddenly wired, like he had been reawakened by this new angle. John shoved the last bit into his mouth and threw his silverware down. "Finished." Sherlock breathed as if he had been given a reprieve; John would have thanked him for waiting if he thought it would have been appreciated. He knew, however, that it wouldn't be, so he just waited for Sherlock's instruction.

"Go to Lestrade. Its 7:47, he's still in his office. Get the photos from the crime scene. I need to visualize everything; I need to give it a second look. _Love, love- such an amateur mistake_." He was repeating himself, chastising his own error. Sherlock had already gotten up and was halfway out the door, John characteristically hurrying to keep up.

"What? You can't remember it all? I thought you remembered everything?" John meant it as a joke- or so he told himself. If he was being honest, he would admit that the tension between them was just too much, that the constant friction let off a burning heat. Every so often, he would look at Sherlock and his blood would just boil for no reason at all.

One loud huff, signifying _I'm-above-your-petty-chatter_, was all he received in response. More irrational anger came to follow, as John had never been at the end of that one before. Sally Donavon, Anderson, and occasionally, Lestrade, but never him. He deflected, "Oh? Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Don't be stupid, John, I haven't the time for it. Of course, I remember the scene; I need the photos so that I can aptly prove my theory to those of you who _cannot_. So, go to Lestrade and get the photos. I'll be at the flat." Sherlock didn't even turn around as he headed back to Baker's Street- didn't even look to see that John was doing as he asked. That was probably because he knew his order would be followed without hesitation.

* * *

"So, you're doing his bidding now, too?" Greg was behind his desk in his office, just as Sherlock said he'd be. John had burst through the door, the request tumbling out of his mouth before he was even fully in the room. "Eh, don't give me that look. It's not like I'm not doing the same damn thing- the entire force lets Sherlock Holmes walk all over them. I just figured-"

"What?" John tempered the harshness in his tone. After spending too much time with the detective, he found that he struggled to maintain normal courtesy. Sherlock never required such formalities, which was to John's benefit, seeing as he never knew what to say in situations harbouring that social expectation.

"It's nothing. He just- he treats you differently. When he calls you an idiot, he doesn't mean it."

The doctor's laugh was more like taking a blow to the stomach. "Oh, no, he means it. Everyone who isn't Sherlock is mentally inferior." Greg glanced up at the young doctor from rummaging through the case file. John didn't want to admit that Lestrade's look seemed like pity.

"Yeah, maybe. But, he certainly pays attention to you. If any of us gives him advice, he ignores it. But, when you give him advice, he-"

"Also ignores it."

"Yes. _But he thinks about it first_. Here are the photos. Try not to let Sherlock ruin them; we'll need to keep them after the case is solved." Why Greg thought John had any control over Sherlock Holmes was beyond him but he bid the inspector goodnight nevertheless. Just to spite Sherlock, he wanted to take it slow, make him wait, keep a leisurely pace whilst heading back to Baker's Street. But, he was thoroughly compelled to rush, his need to solve the case overriding his need to piss Sherlock off.

He jogged through the door, finding the detective sprawled across the sofa, his hands beneath his chin. "Here are your damn photos," John hissed, going to toss them onto the desk.

Sherlock held up one finger. In that smooth, unflinching voice that made his flatmate just want to strangle him, he said, "No. **Hand them to me**." He didn't even look in John's direction.

The blonde man's fist automatically clenched. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." He was going to kill the bastard, he just knew it.

"Hand them to me." With an expulsion of breath aimed at keeping his self-control intact, he walked across the room in measured paces, and (with a little more force than necessary) slammed the envelope down onto Sherlock's palm. "Thank you."

"I'll be downstairs." John retorted promptly. He wanted to leave. A stroll would probably do him well, the cool air hushing his wired nerves. But, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving and letting Sherlock solve the case without him. Because Sherlock would certainly go off on his own and get himself abducted, or injured, or killed. And, while in that moment, John wanted nothing more than to see Sherlock dead, he wasn't going to stand by and let it be anyone else do the deed. He shut the door of his apartment a bit too loudly on the way out.

"Having a little domestic?" Mrs Hudson asked as she poured him a cup of tea. He was sitting in her kitchen, tracing the pattern of the doily tablecloth with his finger. He used to get so annoyed with her (and everyone else's) assumptions that he and Sherlock were some sort of couple but, lately, he had stopped noticing. Just another aspect of living with Sherlock, he figured. "You know Sherlock. He can be so frustrating sometimes. Always leaving terrible things in the fridge, never listening to what you have to say-"

"Being an absolute prick," John muttered into his mug. Mrs Hudson just smiled at him sadly, and he couldn't help but note that it was the second pitiful look he received that night.

"That too, Dearie. But, like I said, that's just how he is. You know, my husband was like that- all energy. Sometimes, it was nice; people like him and Sherlock can make you feel so alive. But, sometimes, you just want them to stop for a minute and listen."

"Mrs Hudson, can I ask you a question?" It had been playing on his mind for weeks, now. He never thought it proper to ask before.

"Of course."

"Sherlock said he ensured your husband's execution- that you now owed him for it. Why?"

She just rolled her eyes and huffed, though there was a glint of something hollow in her expression. "Typical Sherlock- acting like I owe him favours. Putting up with his craziness should be favour enough. It was like I said, John. My husband was all energy; once he started, he never stopped." That didn't make the situation any clearer for John, but since he already cared so deeply for Mrs Hudson, he didn't push it.

"You said Sherlock was like him. Do you think-"

Before he could finish, she cut him off. "Oh, no. Sherlock may be- _well_, he may not always be the easiest man to live with, but he's a good man. When it counts, he's good." John just nodded, inwardly hoping like hell that she was right.

He headed back upstairs after two hours. He didn't want to impose on his landlady any longer. Really, he was itching to get back upstairs- see what Sherlock was doing. He enjoyed watching him work and, even as frustrated as he currently was with the man, he was aching to get back on the case with him.

Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the floor of the living room, the pictures spread out in equal rows in front of him. He seemed completely absorbed in thought; he hadn't appeared to hear John enter. "There must be something here." He was clearly speaking to an empty room. His whisper was strained. It sounded as if he were pleading with the facts to reveal something more.

"I took everything down." John replied, if only to announce his presence. His flatmate didn't even flinch, but ran his index finger over the spine of the notebook absentmindedly.

"Yes. The notes were very- thorough. Thank you, John." It sounded sincere- or, as sincere as Sherlock could manage. John took up his normal seat in the armchair to keep a safe distance. He kept trying to remember what he had been so frustrated about. John caught himself smiling; he should not be so happy to hear the man thank him.

"Better write this date down: Sherlock Holmes shows gratitude." John had spoken aloud to himself and felt automatically guilty when the focus of the comment overheard. He tried to never interrupt Sherlock Holmes because: A) His concentration always seemed so tense; athletic, even. Often, John just liked to watch him, as if watching him would give insight into the ways this powerful mind operated. And B) he still wasn't entirely certain that Sherlock wouldn't pick up the gun from the coffee table and shoot him if it suited his momentary fancy.

He spoke in the monotone that denoted he was engrossed in thought. "I've thanked you before." He still didn't look up.

"When?"

"The first day we met. I asked Mike to use his phone- he didn't have it. You offered me yours. I said thank you."

John looked at his hands. He felt embarrassed –again- that he hadn't remembered, when Sherlock remembered it in great detail. Then, he reminded himself that Sherlock remembered everything in great detail. "So you did." They settled back into a quiet that was electric with the force of Sherlock's vibrating thoughts.

It was another hour before he began to pack the photos away. He stacked them meticulously, which John found strange since Sherlock was generally the least careful person he had ever met, and slipped them back into the envelope. As Sherlock busied himself with clearing up the case items, John allowed his eyes to close. It was almost three AM, John mused to the dark, and he hadn't intentionally stayed up this late since he was fourteen. He certainly wasn't used to it- with the exception of days after an insurgence, John would go to bed at ten every evening during his tour and rise at five. "You should call it a night, John." He distantly heard his flatmate's voice and forced himself back awake.

"M'fine." John already felt like he lost so much time that day; that his clashing with Sherlock dwindled the precious hours away. He couldn't be bothered with sleep now. Not with a killer loose in London and being on the cusp of another adrenaline rush.

Sherlock just gave him his token sceptical glance. However, when it appeared that John was determined to stay up indefinitely, he relented. "Seriously, go to bed. I'm going to need you tomorrow, so you'll need to _try_ to not be useless." John must have only dreamt it sounded kind.

"Need me tomorrow? What are we doing tomorrow?"

"We're going to catch a murderer, of course. So, you ought to sleep tonight. Wouldn't want exhaustion to mar your marksmanship, should we need it."

"Wait- you know who the killer is? Why didn't you say? We could go now-" John went to get up but Sherlock didn't move.

He hummed, "I have a few ideas; seven, actually. A few of which I'll probably rule out before you wake up." He sauntered over to the sofa, plopped down, and picked up the newspaper. He began to casually flick through it.

"That's it, then? You're not going to tell me anything else?" John was unnecessarily incredulous- this was Sherlock, of course he wasn't going to tell him. He shouldn't have been surprised.

"I'm not telling you _tonight_. I'll tell you in the morning. Goodnight, John." He said it the way John recalled his mother always used to when he refused to go to sleep as a child. Insistent, firm. In the end, it was John who forfeited.

* * *

"**John? John?"** He awoke to Sherlock shaking him sharply. His eyes flew open as he sat up. He noted that he was covered in a sheet of cold sweat, but in the face of his friend's urgency, he ignored it.

"What is it?" The strange look- _fear?_- on Sherlock's face narrowed to confusion, as if John's question didn't make sense to him. "What? Did I oversleep? -Alright, seriously, why are you looking at me like that?" John should have known from the way panic coursed through him from the core out that he had just had another fit. But, it had been weeks- the idea didn't cross his mind.

Sherlock just sat at the edge of John's bed, his hand on his chin. "You were –screaming. You were screaming, John." He seemed to gather that John was not in mortal danger and, thus, had regained his distance. That unrecognized flash in his eyes settled into neutrality, but he didn't move off of the bed.

"Oh." Well, that was _embarrassing_. He hadn't had a fit like that since he lived at the old place; in fact, his post-traumatic-stress disorder had seemed to have more or less vanished. Shakily, he wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, trying to ignore the bubble of fear that was still present in his chest. He never remembered the dreams, but the agitation lingered after they passed. To relax, he began to let his eyes sweep the room. Clearly, dawn hadn't broken, as the line underneath the curtain was still black. "Sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't- I didn't know that I was- _sorry_."

"It's fine, John," he murmured in reply. His voice had become smooth again, yet it was somehow entirely different than it had been before. "_As long as you're alright_." John cocked his head to one side, though he was certain Sherlock couldn't see him in the dark. The words sounded so uncharacteristic of the man he had known that he had failed to prepare for them.

"_Er_, right. Yeah, I'm fine. Good. Well, what time is it? Can we do anything, now? Your ideas- what are they?"

"You were only asleep for two hours. The average adult requires at least six to function normally." Sherlock replied simply, as if pure fact would convince John to return to sleep.

"And you never sleep, so the data doesn't actually qualify."

"I said average adult."

John hissed, "Of course you did."

"Irritability is the most commonly attributed symptom of sleep deprivation."

"Jesus, I just want to catch the killer- you, of all people, should understand that." He watched as his flatmate kicked off his shoes and swung his long legs up on the bed. He pressed his back against the headboard. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sit here and wait for you to fall asleep." He replied coolly, as if there was nothing strange about the idea. Of course, John thought, Sherlock would not understand the connotations of a grown man watching another man sleep.

"I'm not afraid of the dark, Sherlock."

"You could have fooled me, the way you were screaming."

"Could I?"

"No. It's only a figure of speech, John." He deadpanned. John just sighed, though it wasn't out of frustration. He had grown so accustomed to Sherlock's illiteracy with normal, human conversation; it elicited nothing but the urge to chuckle. Sherlock really was best for him, he thought. He struggled so terribly with normalcy himself.

Best _flatmate_ for him. He meant flatmate. _Of course._

He sighed and resettled himself on the pillow. "You're serious."

"Of course." John just rolled over and shut his eyes. There was no use trying to explain why this was weird- why he shouldn't be doing this. Sherlock picked up the book from the table by the bedside and began reading it (again, typical Sherlock; but John wasn't fussy about people looking at his things). Between the rustling of the pages and Sherlock's intermittent sighing (likely at the flaws within the deduction- it was a crime novel), John found it easy to fall back to sleep.


	5. The Body in Trafalgar Square: Solved

John awoke to an empty bed, which he expected. Sherlock could never sit still for long- the idea that he was able to keep stationary for the five minutes it took him to fall back asleep was impressive enough. What he hadn't expected, however, was for Sherlock to let him sleep this late. Without even glancing at his watch, he knew that it was nearly ten AM by the way the grey London sun filtered in under the curtains- the hands on the clock's face confirmed it. _Had he left without him?_

Though John was eager (as well as inexplicably anxious) to head downstairs to check for his flatmate, he ignored the urge until he had properly dressed. It was the military man in him; the one that thrived on routine, that masochistic attraction to forcing himself to wait- restraint, that kept him moving at a measured pace as he pulled on his undershirt, pants, and trousers. He slipped into his shoes and tied them with the control of one prepping for merely a casual stroll about the park. He was even certain to buckle his belt before he opened his bedroom door and headed into the living room. "Sherlock? Sherlock- _tell me you're still here_." He was preparing to get annoyed. With Sherlock, he was only ever frustrated or impressed; the man seemed incapable of eliciting any other reaction.

"Ah, John. There you are. My, you do sleep in, don't you?" John was startled, but only initially. It most certainly wasn't Sherlock, but it was someone he knew. "I hope you don't mind- I let myself in. Rather, Mrs Hudson let me in. Sherlock's only just popped out." The figure was sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the knee in a way that denoted years of practice at being casual. Both Sherlock and his brother were alike in that way; neither of them knew instinctively how to act around others. But, while the younger Holmes never made any attempts to learn, Mycroft had become a quick study.

"_Erm_, hello, Mycroft. Would you- _uh_- like some tea?" One aspect of living with Sherlock to which John never quite acclimated was having uninvited visitors show up at the flat. Any given day, any given hour. Often, they wouldn't even knock. But, that was just an unavoidable side effect of living with a genius: while he may be the most aggravating bastard on the planet, he was of high importance to a lot of people (some to protect him, some to hurt him, but all to use him one way or another).

"That would be fantastic, thank you," As John busied himself with the teapot on the stove, Mycroft cleared his throat in the living room. "Sherlock hasn't been answering my calls."

"Does that surprise you?" If he were to say that Sherlock had a minor aversion to his brother, he'd be doing the situation no justice. Sherlock called him his arch enemy, after all. John thought this was just a tad overdramatic, of course. A nuisance, definitely. _Nemesis?_ Well, that was Sherlock for you.

"Not in the slightest. However, I was hoping you could relay a message. A case has cropped up that I'd like Sherlock to take a look at, if he isn't terribly busy. Information on the subject is top-secret, so once I can get you both together, I'll explain the details further."

"Right, well, I'll certainly let him know-"

The door burst open (John noted that Sherlock could never manage to simply come in. He had to throw all of his force at the door until it rattled at the hinges). "Mycroft, could you refrain from showing up at my flat uninvited? _It's terribly rude_." He didn't face his brother as he tossed his coat on the stand by the door but he did cast a weary glance at John as if to say, _I hope he hasn't talked you into anything._ John just gave him his most unassuming look.

"Well, you'd never actually invite me," Mycroft countered.

"That's precisely the point."

"Yes, well, the explanation of the case must wait, I'm afraid. I have an important meeting across town in under an hour. Good day, John." He never bothered to say goodbye to Sherlock. The man would probably trip him on the way out. John just groaned at the teapot, which had just finished boiling. He went to dump the water out but felt a strong grip on his forearm.

"Don't be so wasteful, John." Sherlock's voice was so soft and close, as if he were centimetres from his ear. He very well could have been, as when John moved just slightly backwards, his back was pressed against his flatmate's chest. John was startled, of course. While Sherlock was not one for social attentiveness, he was usually apt at comprehending the idea of personal space. It was only natural that he would be taken aback, John told himself, though he couldn't explain away the strange twisting in his gut that lasted until after Sherlock stepped to the right, kettle in hand, to pour hot water into two teacups. He put two spoonfuls of sugar in one, left the other plain.

"Are you going to let me drink it this time?" John asked, trying to break the tense moment they had just shared (though he wasn't entirely sure Sherlock had even noticed how awkward that had been- he was never certain how far the detective's emotional comprehension extended).

"Depends. How fast do you plan on drinking it? Because you _did_ sleep in this morning."

"Christ. You could've woken me up, you know." Sherlock had already sat down on the sofa where his brother had been sitting only minutes before, stirring the teabag around with a spoon. John watched him carefully; half in expectation, half in frustration. Perhaps, he had been unknowingly comparing the man to Mycroft, but he couldn't help but notice the subtle differences between them as if they had suddenly become obvious.

Sherlock sat without any noticeable tension. While his foot was also crossed over the knee, it was more broad, less refined. A few curls of dark hair fell against his forehead as he drank, his eyes alertly travelling the room. _Always moving_; his eyes were always moving. Though he was at rest (or, at least, not bouncing with unbundled energy), his back was still perfectly straight- a recollection of his years under the scrutinizing eye of parents (his mother, most likely. John had never once heard him mention his father), of public school teachers. He seemed, in that moment, to be majorly unaware of John, which was uncharacteristic of him. **"John, what are you doing?"** Scratch that, he _was_ paying attention. It was a fool's mistake to think he wasn't.

"Nothing, just thinking."

"You were studying me." It came out so blunt that John recoiled. He felt like he had been caught peeking in someone's window, trying to discern things meant to be shrouded in privacy. He blushed red, fiddling with the cup's handle as he tried to come up with a response.

"Sorry." That was the best he could manage.

Sherlock just smirked in a way that made John nervous. "No, no. That's fascinating, John. Tell me, then, what do you see?"

"What do I see?"

"You just admitted to watching me. You're observing- _or, at least, trying to_. Tell me what you've discerned." Sherlock had taken to sitting with his hands under his chin, thin fingers upright. He leaned closer to John in a way that was both exhilarating and frightening. It was a challenge; this could be felt in the air between them. John leaned closer, mimicking him.

"You're calm but you still sit with your back straight: public school, as well as some watchful parents, probably. You were looking around the room- cataloguing everything. Sitting still bores you; you need something to focus on."

"Is that all?" Sherlock grinned condescendingly. John groaned in annoyance. _God, he was an arrogant fucker. _

He had intended to stop there, for fear of embarrassing himself. But, he couldn't back down after that remark (though, in retrospect, he realized Sherlock was finding momentary enjoyment in egging him on). "No. You leant forward when you realized I was watching you. You like to be watched- or, more likely, you wanted to challenge me. You're competitive- but you know you're better at the game, so you're cocky. You-"

"I _what_?"

"You think you could outwit _fucking_ God." They were incredibly close, eyes locked. Any closer and their noses would touch. John could feel it in his limbs- the weight of the moment was so intense, he was certain Sherlock would either punch him or kiss him. He wasn't sure why he thought that- that Sherlock might kiss him. Later, he would try to reason with himself: they spent all of their time in each other's company, they were always at odds (they say hatred and passion were the same thing), it was only logical that he would feel that way. _But, it wasn't really logical, was it? _

In typical Sherlock fashion, he did neither. He expelled a soft breath, smiled wider, and leaned back. Watching John with an amused expression over the lip of his cup, he chuckled, "And I thought you couldn't observe anything. I really must hand it to you, John. You certainly impressed me."

"_What?!"_

"Yes. You are, without a doubt, the most intelligent _idiot_ I've ever met."

"For Christ's sake," John wanted to throw his hands up in anger. Instead, he resettled himself into his chair. He allowed himself only a minute to recollect. "Have you figured anything else out about the case? What were those theories of yours?"

* * *

It still felt strange sitting so close to him, John noticed, though Sherlock seemed completely unfazed. They were sitting in the back of another cab, heading back to the crime scene- or, rather, the National Gallery, where the detective's theory was leading them. To John, it felt like the air around them hung heavy, full of static. He tapped his fingers against his thigh to a tune he vaguely knew. "Nervous?" his flatmate asked coolly, his eyes focused on the blur of the passing buildings.

"No. Of course not. Why would I be nervous?"

"Angry then- or, annoyed."

"No, I'm not-"

"**Fine." **Sherlock's curtness could not have been part of John's imagination. He was irked, certainly. And, while John thought he should have felt in some way guilty (or, at least, concerned- given that he goes back and forth daily over whether Sherlock was on the verge of a psychotic break) he found himself strangely happy about it. _Hell, it was proof Sherlock Holmes felt something._

The cab pulled up to the curb. Sherlock exited quickly, his black coat swaying in the wake of his heightened pace as he headed in the direction of the gallery. John didn't try to keep up this time; he just let him go ahead. Sherlock wound up waiting for him on the steps. "Oh, you're not going to run off this time?" John asked, a false-innocent voice he had only ever used with Sherlock. He would never have predicted that he would become so bitter. Certainly, the man was changing him. Though, in that moment, he felt a stranger to himself and cursed the detective for making him so, he would later admit that he wasn't terribly bothered by it. Since moving into Baker's Street, everything had changed.

"No. I said I would need you, remember? So, do try to get over your _silly_ feelings and focus."

"_My feelings?" _One look from Sherlock and he promptly let it go. They were on the case. There was no time for this, now.

* * *

Three hours later, they were leaning against the wall of the fountain, watching Lestrade take away a young woman in handcuffs. She went willingly, if not wearily, her mousy brown hair falling in her face in a way reminiscent of defeat. The inspector put his hand on the top of her forehead as he went to put her in the car as to protect her from hitting herself on the top of the roof of the vehicle on the way in. John glanced over at Sherlock, who was watching with eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing." His flatmate spoke with finality. But, then again, he always did- so John continued to push, anyway.

"How did you know? There were no prints at the scene, no proof she was even there-" That certainly was true. In fact, there would be nothing to hold her on, bar that she had already confessed when confronted by the detective. Sherlock Holmes had a way of forcing criminals to confess- John had watched him do it so many times, yet he was never sure what it was that he actually did to receive such a response. Maybe he didn't _do_ anything- maybe it was in the way his eyes seemed to disrobe everyone he looked at; much like John felt whenever Sherlock's deducing glance settled on him for too long. Hell, he would probably confess to murder, if it meant that those eyes would stop pulling him apart.

"It was obvious once I realized the true motive was love. It was directed at the front of the National Gallery, because her audience would be there. Once I went online, I saw that tour groups were convening outside of the gallery, as reception is being renovated. There were two options: either the murder was aimed at getting the attention of someone attending the tour, or the person leading it. But, since the tour in question wasn't required to be booked in advance, someone who would definitely be there. So, who would that be?"

"The tour guide," John muttered in acknowledgment.

"I just looked at the schedule, then. There was only one tour guide who started at nine, when the gallery opened. Now, Trafalgar Square has a considerable amount of foot traffic, so this move was- as I already mentioned- a risk. But, then again, the killer was clearly an amateur, and a passionate one, at that. So, she'd take the risk that the body would be discovered beforehand- it would be worth it. It was aimed at the guide- Anna, twenty-three. Oxford graduate, art history major-"

"She went to Oxford and now gives tours out of a gallery?"

"I went to Oxford, and now I solve crimes for the police _for free_. Art history is a rather small field, so it is no surprise that she couldn't obtain better employment. The important aspect, however, is that she was having a hidden relationship with her university best friend. Closeted homosexual- bisexual, more likely. That's when I knew my original assumption had been wrong- the killer was not a man. At any rate, Anna began to show interest in a co-worker here, the night security guard. It was a simple case of jealousy from there. Though Jenna wasn't the most talented criminal, she was also an art history major- with a focus in restoration. Restoration and homicide have the same aim, really- to put your hands all over something to be examined and leave no mark. So, she was at least smart enough to wear gloves and careful enough to not leave anything behind."

"Oh, right. Well, that was-" He was going to say amazing; the way Sherlock could know such things by the brand of jumper Anna had been wearing (that was how he figured she was on Oxford grad). Then, how he had drew on this kind, caring detective act- comforting her a ruse as he slowly extracted information in a way that was more scientific than human. That generally worked with all of the women he interviewed. Sherlock was young, attractive in a dark sort of way. It was clear why he had such a way with them- John needn't deduction to figure it out.

"-_terribly boring_. I would never have taken the case had I foreseen it would be so dry."

"You seemed quite absorbed by it," the blonde man nodded towards the police car, now driving off. "You were-"

"Watching her, yes. But, it's unimportant, now." He was dismissive, waving his wraithlike hand in a circular motion.

"You have a reason for everything, Sherlock, I don't understand why-" John couldn't explain why it bothered him so much, that Sherlock had watched the girlfriend (or, he supposed, _ex-girlfriend_, now) be taken off. Had he just caught a serial child rapist turned murderer, he wouldn't have even given him a second look.

"You really must stop being so bothered about me looking at other people, John. I've told you before, I consider myself married to my work." Sherlock had already left his side and was hailing a taxi at the edge of the sidewalk before John fully comprehended the exchange. _Wait-_

"Wait, Sherlock, that's not what I meant!" he called, catching up to him just in time to slip into the seat of another black car.

"Wasn't it? You certainly implied-" How could Sherlock be so calm about this? John's face was completely red but he didn't bother to hide it- his flatmate should know how thoroughly uncomfortable this was.

"No, no. I didn't mean it that way, Sherlock. Believe it or not, but I'm really not gay." Sometimes, it felt like it was just assumed he was- though he had tried to set the record straight multiple times. Sure, he didn't mind that everyone else thought they were a couple- it really made no difference, seeing as he was keeping company with an obvious sociopath- people thinking he played for the other team was the least of his social concerns. But, what he did mind was the fact that Sherlock always seemed to assume that he was trying to put the moves on him, or something. That was frustrating.

"John, I believe we're out of milk."

"What?"

"I used the last of it this morning."

"And now you tell me? Sherlock, we were just having a serious conversation."

"I just thought of it. Besides, your concerns on the matter are absolutely ridiculous- and clearly misguided. You watch me very closely- your feelings are hurt so easily when I insult you. If you simply didn't care, you wouldn't be so embarrassed."

John just laughed aloud, short and sharp. "You really are clueless, aren't you? Not enjoying being insulted- that's just being human, Sherlock. And, as far as caring goes, I do care- though I really wish I didn't. But that doesn't mean that I have a crush on you; it just means that you are- _I thought you_ _were_- a friend of mine. I won't make that mistake twice." He felt his chest rise and fall, strangely serene after his outburst in the same way that the ocean settles after a seaward storm. He risked a glance at Sherlock's face which was, as to be expected, unreadable. For once, it didn't even bother him.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221B, he got out and headed in the other direction. His flatmate looked after him, but made no move to shout or follow. _Good,_ John thought, _leave me alone, Sherlock. _He started walking down the street.

He didn't get a text for thirty minutes. The fact that Sherlock had lasted that long impressed him; he could never stand it when John wandered off and didn't mention where he was going (which was terribly hypocritical, seeing as he was Sherlock Holmes and that was the very sort of thing he did). **Where did you go? –SH**

John toyed with idea of not replying. That would certainly get under his skin. He held his finger above the keypad, weighing his decision. After a moment:

**Out to get the bloody milk.**

**Could you pick up latex gloves, bleach, and a pack of bin bags? –SH **

"Jesus." John grumbled to his hand basket as he went to the cleaning supply aisle and tossed the other items in with the carton. "He is such a fucking prick."

* * *

When he brought the bags back to the flat, Sherlock helped him put everything away in silence. They continued to stay that way- quiet, both a little too polite- for some time. They shared the space in the living room delicately, as if one harsh word would tear the walls down. John had picked up a novel and was trying to read it, though he was far more distracted by his flatmate's attempt to not pace; clearly, he was trying to give John the peace he was always claiming to want (_claiming_, because, of course, he knew it wasn't true). When the strain the room became too much, the doctor mumbled, "Seriously, it's fine."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "Was I apologizing? Because I certainly didn't intend to."

"_Right_. Of course not. Why would you apologize? It wasn't like you were being an absolute arse earlier, or anything."

"I'm glad we agree." Though he claimed he wasn't apologizing, Sherlock made John a cup of tea just as he liked it (because he couldn't remember how many planets there were in the solar system, but he could remember the colour of the curtains in the room where he analysed his first body for a case and he could remember exactly how John took his tea). He even let him drink the whole cup without interference.


	6. Deadlings in the River

Sorry it's been a few days longer than I had planned, folks! Thank you for those who have commented/followed/favorited so far. Please, continue to tell me what you think (criticism is equally appreciated).

* * *

The incident following Trafalgar Square had gone completely unmentioned. That was becoming a theme, John noticed. They would simply allow the tension to build up between them, as it inherently did, until they were forced to erupt. They would take the other's little insults and aggravated glances with apparent disregard, act like they went unnoticed, until it reached the point when they could take it not a second longer. Or, at least, that was how it worked for John. He wasn't sure how Sherlock felt about it; if he felt anything at all in that regard. Currently, they were in the calm stage; in a gentle lull after wrapping up a particularly amusing (yes, John had begun to think of the cases as _amusing_, though he'd never voice that out loud for fear he'd sound too much like his sociopathic flatmate) triple homicide, both of them absorbed in their own activities. Sherlock stood at the window overlooking the little café across the street, humming to himself as he scribbled music notes down upon a lined page: _composing_. He was in a good mood. John was typing up the case's final lines into his blog as he toyed with different titles in his mind. The flat felt truly quiet for the first time in John's memory, so much so that he wasn't even too terribly irked when the dark haired man across the room made a comment about him being _Tumblr famous_.

"I don't use Tumblr," John jabbed back lightly. To be honest, he was surprised Sherlock even knew the name of any social networking sites. "But, nice try." Sherlock only made a soft noise in response, his attention focused back on the violin and the sheet music. His coat was off; hanging on the coat stand, and John couldn't help but noticed that he somehow seemed shorter without it. In that moment, he could've sworn that Sherlock was not the World's Only Consulting Detective, that he wasn't the same man who sashayed through the streets of London, all mystery, chasing killers into corners. It may have been a stretch, but he considered the idea that Sherlock wasn't even trying to deduce anything in that minute but which notes would most aptly create the sound he imagined.

"John?" The question cut his thoughts, though the voice that carried it was low.

"Hmm?"

"You're watching me, again," John almost smacked his head with his palm- he really needed to learn to be more discreet. _Or, less interested_. He began to mumble, as he always did when he was caught staring. "Stop. It's fine- it was just an observation. I always forget to keep it to myself." The sentence ended, but it sounded as if he was trailing off from a longer thought.

"Look, I-"

"You don't have to explain, John. We've already discussed it." He had the bow in his nimble, porcelain hand but kept it hovering over the instrument. He could feel that his companion was going to reply, though John hadn't even thought of what to say.

He didn't want to break the calm. He considered letting it go- wanted to let it go, even. But, he found himself speaking before he was even thinking. "No, Sherlock. You discussed it- you think I have this crush on you, or something, when I-"

He sighed, though it managed to be neither bored nor annoyed; it was just an ambiguous punctuation. "No, I don't. I've already apologized for that."

"You specifically told me that you weren't apologizing, then."

"You know me well enough to know, when I say that I'm not apologizing, that I most certainly _am_ apologizing." John found solace in the understanding that Sherlock knew he was terribly vague and never said what he meant. He was also pleased that Sherlock thought he knew him, though he wouldn't admit it.

"Right. Well, I forgive you." It came out more like a cough. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but ended up letting it be. Not that it made any difference; Mrs Hudson came bustling in only a second later, looking nervous (though, John noted that she always looked a bit uneasy).

"**Sherlock**- the police are here. Should I let them in?" He shot a quick look to John, one which signified heightened attention. Something was happening- he appeared to be calculating the odds that it would be something interesting. They shared a smile only they would understand- one thoroughly linked to that moment when they hung precariously close to another taste of that chase.

"Sure." John piped up after having been looking, eyes locked with Sherlock's just a minute too long. His flatmate abandoned the violin and plopped down on the sofa, appearing bored (it was certainly an act, John had discerned by this point. He sat marginally stricter than normal, bracing himself for the next crime to solve; he was waiting- his attempts to look nonchalant may have fooled the casual observer, but not Dr. Watson). He had his long, delicate fingers crossed over his knee.

"Quick, look disinterested," the man whispered with just the faintest hint of a smirk across his lips; lips that John had just recently begun to notice were almost too rosy for his complexion. Mrs Hudson had already headed down the stairs to invite the inspector inside, leaving the two of them alone.

He drew his eyebrows together, "Why?"

"Don't want Lestrade thinking we're too eager," He hummed, his voice soft and far more playful than John could have recalled it being. He just rolled his eyes in response but, when Greg opened the door, John had already grabbed a novel from the coffee table and was pretending to read casually, following Sherlock's instructions. "Detective, you are severely cutting into my relaxation- tell me whatever you've brought is, at least, interesting." He had dropped any hint of whimsy and settled back into his low, articulate monotone.

Greg looked tired- more stressed than he normally appeared to be. Still, he was trying to keep up the banter (he was never one for too much seriousness; Sherlock Holmes managed to make the job dramatic enough for the both of them). "Relaxation, Sherlock? _Right_. Anyway, there's been a series of child abductions in-" John had almost choked on his own spit: _child abductions?_ His skin crawled as the idea settled into his mind. Murders were fine, in a strange way, as the victim was already dead. There was no expectation to save them, no clock to work against other than the wry detective's own vague timelines. These, however, required speed and careful manoeuvring_. One wrong step. _

Sherlock didn't even allow him to finish, but scoffed and reached out for his violin, "Boring."

Both Greg and John jolted forward at the same time, sharing a tense look (_Oh, God. He really is a sociopath_, John realized with a sinking feeling in his gut). The blonde man went to start but Lestrade spoke first, "Boring? Sherlock- they're kids. They're in real danger, here-"

"Is there a body?" The calm way he spoke made John feel indescribably nauseous.

"No, and we're hoping we won't find one, but we don't have much time and-"

"I'm not interested." It was strange how suddenly things could change: one moment, John was _awestruck_ by the dark-haired figure across from him, the next he was utterly repulsed. And he wanted to tell him so- wanted to shake him and tell him that he was being a monster. He wanted to scream, _prove me wrong! Prove that you're human!_

But all he managed was, "They're _fucking_ kids." Those steely grey eyes- the ones he had only just been so hypnotized by- settled on him with an unreadable expression. It felt like another stare down; no words could accurately articulate the obvious conversation going on between them, spoken in nothing but force of gravity and, finally, an unidentifiable twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

He sighed, aloud and annoyed, "Fine. **Fine.** You want me to save some children, I will. But, you better hope to God it's_ interesting_." He began to dress in his outerwear without any attention to the other men in the room. "You go on ahead, I'll take a cab."

This time, it was John who appealed. He was still thoroughly disgusted by his complete disinterest, but he was also very aware of the fact that there was no chance without him, "Sherlock, _come on_. They may not have much time. You, of all people, know how little time a kid has- after twenty-four hours, it's easiest to presume they're dead."

In a voice so eerily tempered, he replied, "_I will not ride in a police car_. I will take a taxi- feel free to go with Lestrade and start without me." He was tying his scarf around his neck as he always did, as if there was nothing alarming about it. John grimaced and considered leaving with Lestrade. He went so far as to follow him downstairs, but stopped at the doorway.

"I'd better go with the arse- make sure he gets there." He muttered. Lestrade nodded and gave him a knowing look. His step was grave as he headed back to his awaiting car. He paused.

"Tell me he wasn't serious," he implored quietly.

"I can't tell you that for sure," John admitted, "But I hope like Hell he isn't."

* * *

Four children with no apparent connection were abducted over a twelve hour period, all around London. They all went to different schools and appeared to have no extracurricular activities in common. Their parents all held different jobs, residing within different zip codes and tax brackets. Out with their general age, between five and nine, they had no shared similarities.

Sitting in Lestrade's office, John wrote everything down.

_Mary-Ann Summers: nine years old, redhead. Activities: piano (Tuesday afternoons), vocal lessons (Wednesday through Friday). Parents: John Summers, banking consultant. Kelly Summers, housewife. Last seen on the drive in front of her home approximately twelve hours ago._

_John Gardner: five years old. Brown hair, blue eyes. No scheduled activities. Parents: Jillian Gardner, waitress/bar tender. Last seen in Mayfield Park approximately ten hours ago._

He took down everything they knew; meanwhile, his partner sat in a cold silence. In fact, John had even ventured to think that he wasn't listening (he lacked the animated posture he usually carried when sifting through facts), except that his expression would change minutely to accommodate the flash in his eyes. He couldn't explain why Sherlock was acting this way; he had known that the man was more than capable of cruelty but he would never imagined that he would be willing- nay, prefer- to sit back and watch children die. After Lestrade finished giving them the briefing, Sherlock headed straight into the corridor, John following suit. "Do you seriously not give a damn? How, Sherlock? Please, tell me how you can so callously wait around while those kids-"

"Don't be stupid, John. Firstly, I'm not _waiting around_- seeing as you forced me to come along on this little distraction- though, I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't rather be. Secondly, I don't care because it's not interesting. It appears to be an average, cut-and-dry paedophile_- probably paedophile turned serial killer, by the sound of it._ Lost control; had a break. Certainly, it was most likely bound to happen for a while, now. Killers _kill_, that's what they do, John."

"And you're sure the children are already dead?" He had to muffle the urge to pull his fist back and punch the man square in the jaw with all of his weight. The only thought that kept him restrained was the knowledge that the children's only hope was Sherlock Holmes, even if the man was a heartless bastard. He was not willing to believe they were dead, not yet.

"They might as well be. At least one of them. The abductions were sloppy, done in broad daylight. This one- _he's desperate_. He's willing to snatch them from in front of their houses, under the nose of their nannies. Clearly, this isn't premeditated. Had he been watching them, he would have found better times: times when they were alone, when he wouldn't be seen. He's going to make a mistake, John. He is not going to be able to keep it together long."

"So, what? We wait for a body to crop up?"

When he looked up into the detective's face, there was some undercurrent emotion ghosting his features for a rapid second. Then, he just expelled another impatient breath, as if he was just waiting for John to catch up. "There already _is_ a body. We just haven't found it, yet. Now, I'm going to head back to the flat- I need to think. Stay here, I'd give it only three hours before police discover a corpse in the river."

"_In the river?"_

"He's an unrestrained serial killer, most likely feeling overwhelming guilty but unable to keep his impulses in check. He's mad and has to dispose of a body. Of course, he's going to throw it in the river."

* * *

It was nearly another twelve hours before the body was found, though that appeared to be partly due to the current, which had managed to keep the small child's body under its grasp before relenting it to shore (it was also partly due to the fact that the police force was staffed with idiots, John realized). "She appears to have been in there for several hours," John told the detectives onsite as he leant over the body. Somewhere within him he was frozen. It was as if he was permeating cold out of his limbs. He felt as if he was going to be sick; he had seen war trauma, but never this. He never had to perform a scan on the lifeless body of a child. He did as much as he could before he had to look away. "I've tried calling Sherlock but he hasn't picked up. I swear, I don't understand what he's trying to do, anymore." Lestrade just nodded in solemn agreement as they rode in the car behind the ambulance to St. Bart's, preparing to leave a minute deadling with Molly Hooper.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Greg parked but didn't move to open the door. "Maybe, you should go get some lunch," he suggested to John with a measured tone; like he distantly remembered someone speaking before. _His father, maybe?_ He shook his head, trying to refocus on the present against the swelling dread under his flesh. "Try to relax- then try to call him again. Tell him we need his help- that we're in over our heads. Just- _tell him anything_. Whatever it takes to get him here. I'm trying to solve this before we find another one."

John felt so ill and tired that he consented without comment. He shuffled down two streets and bought a bag of crisps and a Coke from a News Agent and tried to call Sherlock seven more times. Shaking his head, he carried himself back to St. Bart's, preparing to reapply himself to the evidence. Without or without Sherlock, he would solve this. He had to, he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep at night if he didn't (he'd already spent months awake, or so it felt, and he wasn't going to return to such a place).


	7. Mary-Ann Summers

It was with hesitance that John headed for the morgue. Part of him was still quaking from somewhere within, a shutter like a fever, and part of him was raging. _Could Sherlock really be this cold? Of course, he could._ He was a sociopath- why would John even entertain the idea that he might care about anyone other than himself? Certainly not children- not innocent children, _no-_

His thoughts were harshly cut by the voice he'd know anywhere; the deep, monotone hum of the man he had just been silently berating. But, there was no such hum in his speech this time, "Please, put that sheet back, Molly."

"Oh. Um, well, I just wanted to ask your opinion on these marks, here-" _Typical Molly,_ the doctor thought_, trying to stay chipper and get Sherlock to stop being a complete monster. She has far more faith in him than I. _He could hear the detective's footsteps- only two, as if he was moving away. He heard a token Holmes sigh.

"I said, put the sheet back on."

"I will, but I- I need to write down in the report why the bruising-"

"The bruises appear on the inside of her ankle because she was trying to escape. As he pulled her into the car- _no, probably a van, he is a paedophile, after all_- she tried to break free. She was screaming, of course. Calling for help, calling for her father. She adored her father, clearly, he doted on her. He had nearly twenty pictures of the girl in his wallet, revealing that he was proud of her, _maybe excessively so_. But, no matter. She's being pulled into the van- she gets free, for only a second. He grabs her leg as she turns to run. Her face hits the pavement as he pulls her back in. She's screaming, but no one hears her. However, it is a Monday afternoon; so, there are people awake in their houses, on their _quiet, little street_. Maybe they thought she was laughing? If they didn't look outside, perhaps. Maybe they just didn't bother to check? Meanwhile, Mary-Ann Summers is being dragged to her impending death, realizing with horror that, if she doesn't escape, _she'll never finish the project for the science fair on Saturday. _Put that in your damn report, Molly, and **do pull the sheet up.**" Meanwhile, his flatmate was frozen just outside of the door, listening. It was there that John heard Sherlock Holmes' breath catch in his throat, his words only slightly jarred by a trembling tongue.

"Sherlock, I-" Molly spoke gently, soothing. Obviously, John's perception had been correct. He could hear the lighter click of her heels, she was moving toward him, John imagined.

"Molly, no."

"It's okay, you know. It's hard to look at. It's okay that-" When he heard the sound of a body hitting a solid surface, John was certain Sherlock had pushed her. That was the only logical explanation; she had tried to comfort him, he shoved her away. He may have not expected that of him- he could be easily annoyed, surely, but he had never physically lashed out against anyone in John's memory. _But, that was the only possible explanation_. So, when John forced the door open, ready to give the man that punch to the face he had been holding back for the past few hours, he was unsure of how to react when that clearly _wasn't_ what had happened.

Sherlock had his back to the doorway, barely centimetres in front of the lab technician, who was pressed against the counter by the side wall. He had his hands on her face as he pressed his lips against hers. John's jaw dropped. Had he not been in such shock, he may have felt his heart sink, but in that moment, he was only concerned with ensuring that he wasn't hallucinating from exhaustion. No, Sherlock was most definitely _kissing_ Molly Hooper.

They stood like that for a few seconds, clearly unaware of his presence. When Sherlock pulled away, he patted her cheek once and said, still sounding so irrevocably shaken, "No, Molly. It's not hard to look at- and I'm not _anything_. I just need sleep."

She was just staring at him, starry eyed (she was helplessly in love with him, Dr. Watson knew). Finally, she just swallowed audibly, stuttering, "O-oh. Okay then." She was squeaking.

"Get yourself together," the man mumbled, though he didn't sound as condescending as John had predicted (or, sickly enough, would have liked). She nodded weakly, still looking as if she was staring into on-coming traffic, her wide eyes reflecting the image of the person directly in front of her. John noticed how Sherlock wasn't looking at her with those harsh eyes he would've expected- but, not with anything resembling true affection, either. More like pity. "You have some lipstick on your chin." and then, as if he was trying to remedy an insult, he added, "It is suitable on you. Your lips, of course; your mouth looks so _small_ without it."

"Uh-"

"**Erm, sorry-"** John felt as if he had intruded on some twisted, private moment and couldn't stand the idea of his presence remaining unknown. "I was just- looking for Sherlock, but, if you two are-"

"We're not," The dark haired man said calmly and spun to face him. He readjusted his scarf against his neck, but made no other obvious sign that anything was out of the ordinary. "I was actually looking for you; I have an idea, but I'll need some assistance."

"_Looking for me?_ Sherlock, I tried to call you seven times."

"Phone's dead. I told you that."

"When?"

"About two hours ago."

"I wasn't with you two hours ago- you went back to the flat, I went with Lestrade-"

"It's not my fault you weren't listening." John just chuckled; maybe he was overtired, maybe he was still in shock over what he had just seen. His flatmate just raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They walked in silence down a flight of stairs to the ground floor, where Sherlock hailed a taxi at the street corner. He gave the driver directions back to the flat; John didn't question, knowing he'd find out in due time.

"So, you're interested now? Not _bored_?"

Sherlock gave him another quizzical glance. "Pardon?"

John hovered over the idea of telling him that he overheard the whole thing. Part of him wanted to parade it about- that Sherlock Holmes had nearly been brought to tears; but maybe he felt that way because it was more foundational proof that he wasn't a heartless bastard and he just wanted to share that fact with everyone, most of all Sherlock, who seemed unaware of this. Looking over at him in the cab, John felt he finally had enough empirical knowledge to prove that he was not, in fact, a sociopath. But, that left so many more question: why, then, did he pretend he was? "_Nothing._ You're back on the case."

"I never left the case."

"You seem more interested, now. That's all."

That gunmetal glance settled on him in that revealing way. "Oh," he sighed softly, "_Of course_, you overheard."

"Sorry, I hadn't really planned on it. I was just going to look over the corpse, again. For anything I missed." John replied guiltily but he saw a pale hand wave it off without a second thought.

"There's no such thing as privacy, John. Only observation; eavesdropping is merely listening more closely than expected. Besides, you would have deduced it yourself, eventually."

"Deduced what?" John quickly realized that there was something he wasn't getting. Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"Come on, _think_. This isn't hard: why wouldn't I want to take this case?"

"Because it's _boring_?" John clearly wasn't getting this, which made Sherlock even more annoyed.

"But, you overheard my conversation with Molly in the morgue. This leads to the obvious deduction that-"

"You told her to pull up the sheet- that could've meant anything."

"It could've- but it didn't. What is said is far less important than _how_ it is said. Like I told you, John, there's no such thing as privacy; I was weak but you needn't spare my dignity when such an optimal opportunity to practice your deduction arises. I know you heard me." It was strange to think that Sherlock would so callously admit to the feelings he had once tried so effectively to hide. But, then again, that would be like him- even his own self was second to reason.

"You were crying."

"Again, correct, but you need to go deeper. But what does that _mean_? You're seeing, but not observing. Oh, never mind, I'll just let you _mill it over_." They had pulled up in front of the flat. Sherlock had hopped out and was making long strides towards the door. John was sitting, trying to comprehend the strangeness of the conversation. **What had just happened?** He exited the car, still uncertain, and met the detective at the top of the stairs.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He wasn't paying more than the cursory amount of attention as he was sorting through his laptop for something.

"Why did you kiss Molly?"

He stopped moving, but only momentarily. "I was wondering when that would come up. You lasted longer than I expected. _Well done_."

"What's that even supposed to mean?" John demanded but Sherlock paid no mind to it. He didn't look up but smiled quickly as he appeared to find whatever he was searching for.

"I was becoming too attached to the case. I needed a momentary distraction."

"So, you kissed Molly for a distraction?"

"I knew she wouldn't object." _No_, John thought, _she certainly wouldn't_. Somehow, the idea made him even angrier.

"When I think you need a break, I take you out for Chinese-"

"It was a split-second decision, John. I needed to think and I couldn't because I was too emotionally invested, I needed to step back. _It was a problem; I solved it_. But, anyway, you've made it quite clear that you would not appreciate me directing such behaviour towards you."

John felt as though they were getting into dangerous territory. He hesitated over the words before he said them, though they still managed to come tumbling out unchecked. "When did I say that?"

"This morning and a week ago. You obviously have no interest in pursuing that angle, so I figured-"

"Wait a second- just last week you _deduced _that I had a thing for you. Where did that go?"

"You refuted my theory."

"You say your deductions are never wrong."

"I've been wrong before- though, usually in marginal or insignificant fact. But, more importantly, you told me you had no interest in evolving the relationship and I took your word for it. That's what friends do, I was taken to believe, listen. So I did." John caught himself staring down at his hands. This was good, wasn't it? He wasn't gay- he hadn't meant to lead Sherlock on- and now the man finally believed him.

It was good, except for the fact that it wasn't good at all, because he wanted more than anything, in that moment, for Sherlock to direct _such behaviour_ towards him. He had chosen to let John into this manic, dystopian little world; John was the only person for whom he had opened the door wide enough to allow more than just a passing glance. So, perhaps it was more out of selfishness (which the doctor chose to believe because the idea of it was far more comfortable than the truth), but John wanted to be his _everything._ He already took the man's abuse; his cruel comments and constant undertone of distaste with anything and everything John did. He took his sardonic humour. He gave up having any sliver of a normal life; he had to completely cut the concept of having a job because it didn't work with this all-consuming hobby and had come to the conclusion that he would have to forgo dating as well (seeing as Sherlock managed to disturb any guests John brought over with the presence of human body parts and an air of general disregard). He had given everything up to be part of the insanity that was Sherlock Holmes- John felt it only right to also be the person he pushed his lips upon when he needed to clear his mind. He'd earned it.

He felt like he should tell Sherlock all of this, but he couldn't, because telling Sherlock would be admitting things aloud that he wasn't able to face. But, he did manage to mutter, "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"What's that?" The detective was absorbed with reloading John's gun by the sofa- apparently, wherever they were headed, he would need it.

"You're afraid you're going to fail, aren't you? That you're not going to make it in time to save the others? That they'll all end up in the morgue like Mary-Ann Summers?"

He just looked up, face unreadable as always and replied, "There you go. Now, you're deducing."


End file.
